Black Diamonds (9 page)

 

FRANCINE

Naturally, the Leprechaun hooted with delight when I told him of the rosebush incident, the jaunt, and subsequent plans for Sunday. He seems interested in little else but my Great Romance now that he has been through the workings of the trust accounts with me; it all seems fairly straightforward, even for someone as distracted as myself. And he's left copious written instructions anyway and reminded me a million times that Stanley and Bragg, the solicitors, will look after me. He's very tired, and says he'll only go out for a short time every day or two from now on, till he gets even more tired and then he won't go out at all. He needs to check on his Lavatory and Washing Facility, which he is having built so that the men may be able at least to wash their hands and faces properly before heading home after work. They laid the first brick on Friday, while I was out romancing. I still can't believe Father is dying, though I am surely watching it: he must have lost a stone this week and I'd prefer to believe he's looking rather fit for it. I simply can't believe it. Prefer to dwell on disbelief that there is no toilet at the mine. It's not even going to cost all that much to build; it's only very basic, for a very basic need. More appalling still is that, Father told me, no other mines have these facilities either. Why not? They can wash the coal for market but not the men? And it's personal now: Daniel would work every day down a dark hole, risking life and limb for the company, and could not so much as go to the toot in any dignity at the end of the day. Could not wash his face; no wonder he was filthy.

And the toot is of small concern in the scheme of general unfairness. Father has also told me that the miners have to pay for the repair of their own tools, which they have to buy themselves; that they pay for the gunpowder to blow apart the coal, and the fuel to light their lamps; and that they even have to employ their own man to check the weighing of the coal they dig up to make sure they are duly paid. Then out of their pay come union fees, doctor's fund, mutual protective association fund … The ponies that wheel the skips fare better: free food, lodging and equipment, and a well-aimed bullet when they've had it. What do miners get above pay? A free bag of coal to take home at the end of the week, and, if they're lucky, subsidised rent — in a cottage if they're married, in a shack near the works if they're not — which they pay, naturally, to the company. Impressive. My eyes used to blur over any article in the newspapers about strikes and union claims and unfair business practices. They don't any more. I read yesterday that the wages of labourers, seamstresses and young public school teachers do not meet the ordinary expenses of living; the article was suggesting that the teachers should be paid more, regardless that so many are women, but why should anyone do a day's work and not be able to live off their income? That's not a tangle, it's a face-slapping travesty. While the disgrace makes me want to sell the mine and go back to forgetting such things exist, I can't do that till I'm twenty-one — three years from now. Till then, I'll do as Father asks, the little that Father asks; it seems so terribly little, but he's also made it plain that's the extent of what can be done from this small quarter, and that Mr Drummond is never going to be easy with any of it. And that Mr Drummond was right about the mine enquiry thing too: it took the coroner twenty minutes to decide that the cave-in was
a most unfortunate calamity
; Mr Lewis thanked him on behalf of the dead for nothing, and Mr Drummond thanked him and smiled.

Still, all this gloom makes an afternoon at the rugby look appealing at least. Besides, after forty-eight hours, I am fairly dying to see Daniel again. Not only for the obvious reasons; it's taken on crusade proportions now: I'm not going to let him go back inside that hideous hole. If I have to I will ask him to marry me and cart him off, against his will if necessary. I'm one of the bosses — I'll force him, or break his other leg.

Father comes in now as I'm getting ready to go. ‘You're a picture,' he says, standing in the doorway of my room. I can see him in the mirror of my dressing table; I've been inspecting the two-inch scratch on my cheek; it's not too bad, and there's nothing I can do about it anyway. I turn to look at him properly for a moment; his eyes are wet and he's grinning like the devil. I grin back, and fix the last pin into my hair, for what that's worth, since it'll fall out again in five minutes, my hair's so straight and slippery, then I gather up my winter coat. Every moment we are together now he does not take his eyes off me, and I embrace him ten times a day, as I am doing right now, imprinting his warmth into me, and making myself promise again that he will not see me cry, not once, he will not see my heart breaking, only feel it beating against his. He will not hear it whispering:
Maybe if I refuse to believe it, it will not happen.

‘Get off then, girl, you'll be late,' he says, but his arms are slow to let me go. And yet that is exactly what he wants me to do. As far as I know it's unheard of for a father to send his daughter out alone with a young man she barely knows, into strange company, for the purposes of allowing her to follow her impulses, while at the same time preparing her for a morally responsible career in business. Stranger still is that my head is not spinning with it now. It seems that my part in his atonement goes very deep, and gratitude matches my fear. With one last glance for luck at Kookaburra, to the rugby I shall go.

But luck is not happy this afternoon: Daniel utters nothing but directions as we head out to this paddock place; he barely even looks at me. I am the cabman apparently, with a moody, broody passenger. I try to make conversation — ‘Goodness, it's chilly, isn't it?'; ‘I've brought a little picnic'; ‘I hope it doesn't rain'; ‘Here, take the blanket, your toes will fall off' — and the monosyllabic responses wear me down. Eventually, impatience roils and I pull Hayseed up by the side of the road somewhere in the labyrinth of dusty tracks beyond town. ‘Are you going to talk at all today? Because if you're not, I'm going to turn this trap around right now.'

That makes him look at me, fierce, then frown, then sigh: ‘You were right, Francine, this isn't reasonable.'

‘Oh.' I sink through the seat of the trap and into the dirt below.

‘I want it to be,' he adds.

Say more, I demand with my eyes, and stop frowning at me like it's my fault, even if it is.

‘I can't think about anything else other than how much I want it to be, but it doesn't help. We're too different, aren't we.'

He's not getting away with leaving it at that. I keep staring.

Half sigh of exasperation, half grunt: ‘I mean it's a bit of a Romeo and Juliet, isn't it — a make-believe that didn't end too well.'

Astonishment at literary reference, but still staring.

‘Stop blinking at me!'

He smiles; I blink again: I've won. We've won.

‘It'll end in tears,' he says, deadpan. I love him.

‘You only live once,' I say, and that hangs there fat with meaning for a moment. ‘So do you want me to take you to this rugby thing or not?'

‘It won't be like anything you're used to.' Last grasp.

‘I'm not like anything I'm used to any more. Just try to shock me.'

‘All right,' he says, proper smile this time. ‘Let's see what we can do for you.'

It doesn't look like a hideous hole in the ground as we pass it. Beyond the small office building and some big sheds and machinery things, and further on, presumably, the foundations of Father's Lavatory and Washing Facility, is a rather grand portal arch set into the side of the hill proclaiming that this is
The Wattle Dell Colliery, 1902.
The irony is awful: fabulous façade, but, sorry, no toot. And the wattle, scraggy and olive-dull this time of year, is prolific; come winter's end, when the fuzzy blooms cover the hillside with bobbing yellow, it'll look like the entrance of a tourist retreat. Except for all the sets of rail tracks, especially the ones that disappear beneath the arch. They fade abruptly to black. And I don't let my eyes linger too long; I don't want him to see me staring at that. I look at him instead and he says: ‘Keep going round, past the stables.'

And way round the other side of the hump of bounty and degradation, and past another couple of holes in the ground, one of which is called ‘Stables', lies a paddock. It is a natural grassy flat, upon which tall poles and crossbars have been erected at either end; I do recognise them as the things through which odd- shaped balls are kicked. Chalk lines mark out the playing field, and a few dozen men are spreading themselves out across it. Looks just like a football match is about to start, except there are no stripy jerseys in sight: they all wear work boots and various utilitarian shades of navy and grey. There's a gathering of other men and boys, and women and children ranged along this near edge, with picnic rugs spread out and treats laid on; very civilised. It seems the other edge of the field drops off sharply, gums dangling their branches up and over on that side, and I wonder how many times the ball goes over it. Altogether there must be around two hundred people here, and almost the same number of ponies it seems when I look across at the other end of the field again.

‘They're the pit ponies,' Daniel explains when I comment on how lovely they are, standing in such easy formation. ‘They never miss a match. Keep the grass short for us too.'

I look across the whole scene again; they are all facing the field: people and ponies. None looking at us, though, as we slowly wheel in; more important things afoot.

Daniel says: ‘Stop here.' He's so abrupt I pull Hayseed up with a bump, and here we are on the sideline close to the nearest of the posts, conspicuous as we could possibly be. But still no one shows interest in us; a whistle blows, the ball goes up and the game begins.

‘Who's playing who?' I ask, daring the obvious.

‘Caps and no caps. See?' Not looking at me.

‘Everyone here is from the Wattle?'

‘Yes.'

‘How do you know who's on which team?'

‘By the caps.' He drags his eyes from the field and looks stunned by my stupidity.

‘No, I mean how do you decide who gets a cap and who doesn't?'

‘It's a cavil.'

‘What's that?'

‘A lottery — pick the names out of a hat, before the game.'

There you go; don't ask what happens if caps fall off. Stop blathering on anyway; he's half off the seat of the trap now, and muttering something unintelligible at whatever's going on out there. I haven't a clue, but watch too, thinking: so you all work together then smash into each other on Sundays for fun, at random. Hmn.

‘Yes. Yes.
Yes
,' he's calling out and I look from the field to him, and back to the field: clearly not the time for inane questions from the ignorant. It seems half of the players are charging straight for us, till the one with the ball gets thumped down and then they all appear to jump on top of each other indiscriminately. Another one emerges from the scrap with the ball and breaks away from the mob, and he really is charging at us, full tilt. Hayseed stomps and nickers, not in fright, I don't think, but in a merry excitement. Good heavens. And the man throws himself over the chalk line, just a few yards away.

Daniel explodes: ‘Robby!'

And this Robby fellow picks himself up to the claps and cheers of all, runs over, jumps up to punch Daniel on the shoulder, says,' You beaut,' then runs off again.

Baffling stuff but so joyous it's hard not to be swept into the enthusiasm. Daring again I ask: ‘What happened just then?'

With a look of the most delightful forbearance, he says: ‘That, Francine, was a try, scored by my good mate Robby Cullen.'

‘Oh. Good,' I say, and still daring I have to ask: ‘How do you know who to cheer for? I mean, which team?'

‘Whoever you like,' he grins and that's all the explanation I'm going to get since he's watching the game again. One of the players sends the ball sailing over the posts from about twenty yards off, and Daniel leans down to say: ‘And that was an excellent goal.'

Terrible need to fan my face after the sensation of his breath on my ear. Oh goodness. Calm down, Francy. I watch the crowd and notice that they've started to make glances at us; how could they not? I suppose they all know who I am and are wondering what I'm doing here; and there's that tough-as-nails-looking Mr Lewis, in the middle of the players with the whistle: he certainly knows who I am. Oh, I hope he doesn't recognise the trap from the other day when I was hiding in the rosebush. I've already decided to play the happy cabman, but now I am nervous. It seems important that I have the approval of these people, not for being here with Daniel — I'm not sure I want to know what they'd think of that — but simply for being.

Thoughts are a mire of ifs and buts until the whistle blows again, for the break in the game, and when the players leave the field, people start coming over to us. It's a blur of:

‘Danny, mate, it's good to see you.' Back slap, handshake.

‘Miss Connolly.' Doff cap or nod, pretend not to stare.

‘Danny, come on second half, why don't you.'

‘Miss Connolly.'

‘Danny, you loafer. When are you back?'

‘Miss Connolly.'

I want to know who this Danny is, this beloved Danny. Untouched by myriad unmentionables.

I feel a gentle tap on my arm, my side of the trap. A woman stands there; she's perhaps about thirty, but it's hard to tell, since her forehead is deeply lined. I smile my happy cabman smile and she says: ‘Miss Connolly, how do you do, I'm Moira Jones.'

‘How do you do.'

‘Better than I should be doing, thanks to your father. He should be sainted, if only for what that money means for my children. I just wanted to tell you that.'